


Trouble Sleeping

by bactaqueen



Category: Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, PIV Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 01:43:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15570984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: Steve sees his opportunity and takes it.





	Trouble Sleeping

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people or events is entirely coincidental. Captain America belongs to Marvel. No infringement is intended and no profit is made.
> 
> Author’s Note: More porn.

She’s just wailing on the bag, and it’s a strange feeling to watch that kind of rage manifest as violence instead of feel it. They’re otherwise alone in the gym, which is why he comes at this hour, and why she used to until he caught her, and then she started coming earlier or later. Too early, and it’s full of the building’s overworked moms; too late, and it’s full of everyone else. This time, though. This time is just about right.

So he stands there, arms over his chest, leaning against the pillar, out of sight of the mirrors, and he watches her. She’s so angry. He knew she was angry. Like recognizes like, after all. She’s just better at controlling it than he is. Or she just doesn’t have any outlets beyond… well, this.

But her hands are bare.

She slams a fist into the bag, right around where on a person ribs would splinter, and she hits it wrong because her wrist breaks. She says, “Fuck!” and she doesn’t even mean it, and then she’s just standing there, arms at her sides, shoulders trembling.

“You’re going to break your knuckles,” he says.

She starts and half-turns, realizes it’s him and turns back away. “Sorry,” she says. “I’ll be gone soon.”

“It’s late.” He pushes away from the pillar.

“Couldn't sleep.” She sighs and reaches up, pushes her hair out of her face. She drops back into a fighter’s stance and lifts her hands.

“That kind of night, I guess,” he says, and drifts closer.

He times it carefully. She lifts her elbow and shifts her weight, and he snatches her wrist right out of the air, curves his hand protectively around hers.

She flinches and tries to pull away. “I said I’d be gone soon.”

And normally, she’s deferential. That’s why he stopped seeing her around. She values the privacy of the empty gym and assumes he did, too; and he did, until he realized that the only thing better than an empty gym is someone who understands why it’s so good. He brushes his thumb over her knuckles and lifts her hand so he can bring it into her sight line.

“If you break your hand,” he says, “how are you going to work?”

She yanks her hand out of his. “I’ll be fine.” She shifts her weight and moves away from him, circling the bag.  
  
“I have wraps,” he says.   
  
“I’m almost done,” she tells him, and her words are clipped. “It’ll be fine.”

She’s not going to stop, so he just moves behind the bag and holds it. “All right.” If she breaks her hand, maybe that’ll give him a reason to bring over dinner. Just friendly.

“You can go,” she says shortly. “You don’t have to hold it.”

“Consider it a challenge.” He braces himself.

Under other circumstances, he’d never challenge her. He doesn’t like the fight, not like this. But when he says it, her eyes flash, and he knows it’s the right thing to say.

She leans into it.

He holds the bag.

He waits until she can’t breathe, until her face is red and her hair is sweaty and her hands are starting to bruise. He swings the bag back just enough that she loses her balance and has to put her arms out to catch herself.

“Want to talk about it?”

She frowns at him. “No.”

He takes a quiet deep breath. “Want to fuck about it?”

He’s prepared to laugh it off, to say it was just to make her smile. But she looks at him, right at his collarbones, and she looks hungry. It’s only a moment; it passes. Her face goes red and she looks up at him and there’s a flash of shame in her eyes.

“That’s a good one,” she says.

“You didn’t say no,” he points out.

She scoffs. It’s supposed to be a laugh, he thinks, but it doesn’t quite make it.

“Thank you, Steve. I needed that.” She steps back from the bag. She gives him half of a smile and pushes her hair back from her face. “Sorry,” she says. “I wouldn’t have come down, but...” She shrugs. For a moment, she looks helpless.

“Are you leaving?”

“I should try to sleep,” she says.

“Probably,” he agrees.

“Thanks for holding the bag.”

“Wait,” he says.

She closes her eyes. “I really can’t talk about it,” she says quietly. “I just… can’t.”

“You know, if there’s one thing I’ve learned since getting back--”

She groans quietly. “I can’t believe you’re using that line on me.”

“--it’s that sometimes you have to talk about it, even if you don’t want to. It’ll give you some perspective.”

“I don’t want you to...” She falls silent. She sighs again. “I can’t.”

“Then don’t. But at least don’t go. You probably shouldn’t be alone right now.”

She doesn't say anything. She looks like she wants to say something, but what can she say? He sees his opportunity. He's going to take it.

Steve points to her hand. “Let me get some ice for those knuckles.”

“I have ice.”

“I have whiskey.”

She pauses. “Okay.”

He leads her up the stairs. He goes slow, because she does, and he only lives on the third floor; she’s up a few more, enough that sometimes he can catch her in the garage and help her carry the groceries up. It's not that he makes a habit of putting himself in her path, not really, or at least that's what he tells himself.

He didn't lock the door, so he lets them in and waits for her to pass him in the front hall. He points toward the living room.

"Have a seat," he says. "I'll bring the ice."

"And the drink."

He pushes the door shut and locks it. "And the drink."

She's standing there just inside the living room, looking at him, and then she shakes herself and moves. "Okay."

He doesn't take his time in the kitchen. He gets the ice in a couple of bags and puts on the tops, then grabs the bottle and a couple of glasses. She's settled into the corner of the couch when he finds her, head back, eyes closed.

He sets the glasses on the coffee table as he sits down next to her. He puts the ice on her lap, then pours the whiskey. He hands her one of the glasses and sips his own and watches her ice her knuckles. She's only doing it because he's watching, he knows, but he'll take it.

"So why the bag tonight?"

She laughs, a short sharp thing like it hurts, and she takes a big long drink of the whiskey. "I said I didn't want to talk about it."

"You didn't say you didn't want to fuck about it."

She laughs again. "Don't say that. What would you do if my answer was yes?"

His arm just happens to be along the back of the couch. His fingertips just happen to be near her hair. He brushes his hand over her hair and he says, "Kiss you."

Her breath catches and for a moment she looks stricken. She says, "Well, that's hardly fucking," and she sips her drink. But her hand is trembling.

He waits. He sips his own drink, not because he needs it but because she does, and he waits for her to finish gulping down most of hers. Maybe she's screwing up her courage. She doesn't seem the type to do this. He didn't think that of himself, either, but what does he know? Especially now. Sometimes that's just how it works out. She lowers her drink and he takes it from her, sets it on the coffee table.

She says his name.

He cups the back of her head with his hand and says, "We'll get there." And he kisses her.

She freezes, and he has half a moment to think about pulling away. And then her fingers are in his hair and she's pulling him closer, parting her lips, and he leans into it. Keeps it soft, though. Keeps it slow. That is for himself; he likes it hard and fast just as much as anyone, but this first time, this first kiss, he likes it like this. Likes to learn the shape of her, taste her, listen to her. And she's hard and fast, pushing into it, but he tips her head back, slants his mouth over hers again and again, touches his tongue to her lip, to hers, takes a deep breath and lets it out.

She pulls away. He lets her go, but doesn't let go of her. He opens his eyes, watches her. She looks alarmed: eyes wide, mouth parted. Then she licks her lip. Bites it.

"I--"

He kisses her again. Quick and soft. "Say stop and we will," he murmurs. He kisses her again.

She turns her face, but not away from him. Into his neck. She's got her hand curled against the back of his head, and she's shaking. She says, "If I don't want to..."

He kisses her temple. The angle of her cheek. Lips her earlobe, feels her tremble. Oh, he thinks. He can work with that. And he moves the hand he was bracing on the arm of the couch to keep the weight of him off of her, slides his arm around her and in a second has her flat on the couch, under him, one of his knees between her thighs and his other foot on the floor, his hand under her head and the other on the back of the couch, still to hold himself off of her.

He's heavy. He knows he can be overwhelming. It doesn't help that now he seems to favor small women.

And then she goes and hooks a leg over his hip. She looks like she wants to say something, but she holds it back. He gives her a moment. Rubs her hair between his fingers and just looks at her, because this is what he's been thinking about for months, and maybe before--before the ice, before this new century, before Jan--he'd have the same reservations. People like them don't do these things lightly. And "say stop" wasn't empty assurance. But he can't hide his own want, won't anymore if she doesn't ask him to.

She doesn't say anything. Just pushes her fingers through his hair again and pulls him down.

This is good. She really pulls him down, not just her hand on his head but her arm around his middle, her leg over his hip, pulls him down flat to her. She kisses him, tongue on his lips and then against his, soft and wet and wanting. Her breath catches and she moans a little when he strokes fingers down her neck, when he runs his hand down her side. He holds himself up now with his hand in the couch at her hip instead of at the back of it, shifts until his hips are cradled in hers and she can feel the line of him against the center of her.

In case she had any doubts...

She breaks a kiss to tip her head back and breathe, and he doesn't need to breathe so he kisses down her neck. The clothes that in the gym seem functional now seem like too much, but he's not sure she's ready for him to strip her. Instead, he pushes up, away from her, and her hands move down the front of him. He's there, one knee between her thighs, and he looks down at her and doesn't hide the need, the want, in his own face when he yanks his shirt over his head.

"Oh." She sucks in a deep sharp breath. She doesn't put her hands on his chest, like he expects. She puts her hands on his belly, fingers exploring the ridges there, and instead of going up, she goes down until his hips are in his hands. "Wow."

He laughs.

She blushes, cheeks going red, and she moves her hands from his hips to his sides, almost polite, except she's stroking his skin with her thumbs. "That's not the first time you've heard that," she says.

And he doesn't like that he's embarrassed her, or that she's making fun of herself. He drops his shirt and lowers himself to her again, slips a hand under her shirt to stroke her side just like she's touching him, and he kisses her. "Feels good when you say it," he tells her, and it's not a line even though he knows it sounds like one. He kisses her again until she softens, again.

Then he tugs up the edge of her own shirt, just a little. "Can I?" he murmurs into her mouth.

She freezes. Her fingers clench on his sides.

He kisses her, again and again, and he strokes her side. And he waits.

She huffs a little laugh. "I guess it's not fair for me to say no."

"I've been thinking about getting you naked for months," he admits, because it feels like the right time to say it.

Her fingers spasm against his sides and she sucks in a sharp little breath. "You have not."

He rolls his hips against her. He's hard. Not so hard it hurts, not yet, but they could get there and he'd enjoy every second of it. "Honey, you have no idea."

She looks like she wants to protest. He doesn't give her the chance. He ducks his head and he kisses her like he means it, like he wants to be inside her, because he does--oh, he does. He kisses her with everything he has, lets himself overwhelm her, press her down, lets himself have this.

When he pulls away, her eyes are still closed. Her tongue swipes over her lips and she's shaking.

"Oh."

He starts working her shirt up.

She lets him.

The bra beneath is as ugly as functional bras ever are, but this one has a delightful surprise: it opens in front. He runs the tip of a finger down the three clasps and looks up at her face.

She's blushing. Oh, it's beautiful, especially with her dark eyes and wet lips. He makes his expression a question and her blush deepens, but she nods.

He kisses her and works open the three clasps.

He just... needs a moment. When it opens and her breast spills into his hand and she's so soft. She's soft all over, and it's... He wasn't prepared for that. He presses kisses to her mouth, to her cheek, to her neck, and he pants against her skin, and he just holds her. Just for a moment.

She puts her hand over his and kisses the hinge of his jaw and mumbles, "Sorry. We can--" She's already starting to pull away, to move his hand.

It hits him like a Hulk punch to the gut, like Simpson's boot in his face. It hits him because he knows this. He hasn't felt it in  more than seventy years--than fifteen years, really, chronologically--but he knows this. He kisses her shoulder, kisses the line of her collarbone.

"God you're beautiful," he says into the hollow of her throat.

She's frozen. She takes a deep breath and she's shaking. She says, "Hey, you don't have to... You don't have to say that. I don't have any expectations." And she starts to gently push him away.

He lifts his head. Finds her eyes. Says, "I have enough for both of us." Then, "Do you want to stop?" And he strokes his thumb along the inside of her breast, where her skin is pliant and warm.

"No." She says it without thinking. She blushes, looks worried, searches his face and meets his eyes. "Should we? Do you?"

He moves up to kiss her. "No." He should. They both should. But, no, he doesn't want to. He wants this, right here, her body under him, her breasts bare and crushed to his chest. He wants her fingers in his hair, on his skin, wants her hips rocking...

That's new. He smiles against her mouth and rocks his hips against hers, too, finding the rhythm she's seeking. He's hard, and she's soft and hot through the leggings, and she's riding him.

Her cheeks are pink when he breaks the kiss but she doesn't stop smiling. He lifts up, just a little, to brush her hair out of her face, to brush the pad of his thumb over her lips. He rocks against her.

"What do you want?"

She laughs, breathless. She says, "God, no one's asked me that in years." And she shifts her hips and her hand on his side clenches. She meets his eyes and her eyes are so bright. "What do you want?"

"I asked first." He stroked his thumb down her neck. He wants what she wants--he wants to give her. No one had asked her? What a world to live in now...

"I want..." She bites her lip.

He kisses at her until she stops, until she kisses him back. Then, eyes on his face, she takes her hand from his hair and wraps her fingers around his. Slowly, as if giving him time to stop her--as if he'd want to--she takes the hand from her neck to her leggings. To between their bodies. And she puts his fingers on here there, right at the center of her, and asks him with her eyes.

He presses against her, gentle, until she takes her hand away. Until she puts it back in his hair. Then he slips his hand into the front of her leggings, into her panties, and slides three fingers between her lips.

She's wetter and hotter than he expects when she spreads his fingers. He circles the tip of his middle finger around her and she moans, and that's more than he expected, too. So he shifts his weight, braces his elbow in the couch, and he watches her face and follows the rise and fall of her hips.

She closes her eyes and tips her head back and bites her lip. Her fingers in his hair twist, her hand on his side curls, and she rides his hand.

And, oh, it's better than he hoped for. He doesn't put his fingers inside, just keeps her lips spread, her skin taut, his finger flat and lets her ride his hand, lets her rub herself off on him. And she rises, closer and closer, until she just... stops. Goes tense all over, so close to the edge he can taste it, but she doesn't tip over.

"Fuck." She huffs. She clenches her jaw. "Fuck." She squeezes her eyes and then looks at him, and she's close to tears. "Never mind. I'm sorry. Fuck. I don't know what's wrong with me--"

He covers her mouth with his. He slips his hand out of her leggings, holds her hip. Strokes his thumb along the line of her hipbone. He puts his hand under her head again, pushes his fingers through her hair, holds her like that. He lowers himself, a little. Lets her take some of his weight. He kisses her, gentle, because he knows what it's like to feel like you've disappointed someone. He moans a little into her mouth, deliberate, but it's there and he doesn't want to hold back.

Quiet, against her lips, he says, "You feel good. Can I take these off?" He tucks his fingers into the waist of her leggings.

"I probably won't come," she says. She swallows. She goes on, "But could we still fuck about it?" She asks like she thinks he'll say no.

He kisses her. He doesn't say he'll make her come--that's too much pressure, and he doesn't want to scare her off, doesn't want this to be his only chance. "Please," he murmurs instead.

The way she looks at him when he says that has his chest swelling.

She shifts beneath him, lifts her knees. She takes the hand from his hip to the waist of her leggings, and for a moment he's so excited she's finally stripping them off he forgets to help. And then he does, and she's naked. And he's up a little, looking down at her, and she puts an arm across her belly and pushes at his hip.

"Your turn?"

He's never gotten his shorts off so fast.

He can't stop staring at her cunt.

Before he knows it, before he means to, he's sliding to the floor, his hands on her knees sliding up her thighs, and he hears himself over the rush of blood in his head, "Can I...?" and he tries to wait for her answer, he does, but he eases her legs apart, pins her.

She gasps, says, "Steve, wait--"

Then his mouth is on her, lips on her cunt and tongue slipped between her labia, and she's wet and sharp and her clitoris is hard, and dimly, faraway, he hears her.

"Oh..."

Her fingers are in his hair. He lets her hold his head and when she shifts her hips, he follows, keeps his mouth to her and his tongue on her. He learned he loves this, didn't expect he'd get it--not so soon--barely even hoped. But he closes his eyes and can't help the deep moan, and she's so wet against his chin.

It doesn't seem long at all before she's tugging at his hair, pulling him off of her. He lifts his head and she's looking at him, wide-eyed and a little wild and blushing hard.

"You can stop."

He kisses the inside of her thigh. He doesn't want to. But it's the way she says it, that he  _can_ , he thinks maybe she thinks he's not being a selfish prick about it, and he thinks if he wants to keep his chances of having it again, he should listen to what she's not saying.

He slides up her. Stretches them both out again on the couch. His dick is hard, against her belly, and he takes her hands, links their fingers. He lifts her hands to the couch at her head, and he kisses her. Soft, sweet, little kisses, aware of the taste of her on his lips, his tongue, aware that he likes it--loves it--but maybe she doesn't. He realizes quickly he doesn't have to worry; she's licking at his lips, licking into his mouth, moaning very softly, rising against him.

She hooks a leg over his hip and angles her hips.

"Please," she says quietly.

He's hard enough, she's wet enough, he doesn't need his hands. He just shifts his hips. And he slides into her, slow, biting the inside of his mouth to keep from gasping, watching her face, her mouth open, her eyes fluttering closed.

He drops his head, presses his forehead to her chest. And he glides. In. Out. In again. He slides in as deep as he can and can't help the long breath, low, the quiet moan.

It feels like it takes him forever to come back from the edge where he wants to just jump, but she's here. It's not just about him. It's about... about inviting her to stay. He lifts his head and presses in deep and grinds, and with each minuscule shift of his hips he searches her face until he sees the tightened skin around her eyes melt into slack bliss, until he hears the soft little sigh from her lips, until he feels the curl of her fingers digging into his skin.

She hisses, "Yes."

He stays right there. Hips angled, strokes slow, he hits that place inside her that makes her gasp. She's snug and slick and so hot he can't breathe. He kisses her again and again, lets her hear and feel what she's doing to him. She rises against him, tightens more each time he slides in and grinds up.

He's not sure who's more surprised when she comes, fluttering and clamping around his cock, tightening her leg across his back and gasping his breath into her mouth. He pushes in deep and stays, shifting his pubic bone up and down against her, her clit caught against him, trapped.

She exhales. "Oh my god." She kisses him. Her fingers in his hair, pulling him down, her arm around his back now, her legs around him. She's greedy, pulling him down, kissing him and rocking her hips. "Steve. Steve. Come on, Steve, please--"

It's his name. His name is what sends him over, chanted like that, his name, not  _Cap_ , not  _Captain_ , not  _Rogers_ , but his name, breathed, bitten off, begged. He pushes in deep, comes inside her, face pressed to her neck, groan ripped out of him.

And she cradles him. Wraps herself all around him and holds him.

It takes him almost a full minute to realize she's shaking. And when he lifts his head, he sees that she's crying. Panic rises inside him until he realizes she's laughing, too.

She moves her hand from his hair to throw her arm over her eyes, and she can't seem to stop shaking. She's still laughing and crying. He kisses her mouth, her chin, tries to make it a question.

She moves her arm to look at him and her eyes are shining. "I thought I was broken," she says.

He kisses her. "You don't feel broken to me."

She laughs again and throws both of her arms around him. And she hugs him. It should maybe be too much--he's inside her still, softening, but slowly--but it's not. He pushes both arms under her and hugs her back.

It feels good.

She laughs and kisses his temple, his cheek. "Thank you," she murmurs, and draws him into a kiss.

"You're welcome," he murmurs back. "What did I do?"

"Oh." She pushes her fingers through his hair and holds his face so she can look into his eyes. "I thought I was  _broken_."

He still isn't sure what that means, but he kisses her. She kisses him back, wound all around him, and his prick is starting to perk up again.

Gingerly, less than willing, he pulls out of her.

She gives a long, long moan. "Oh." And then she catches him grinning, and she blushes. "You've heard that before."

He kisses her again, then sits up, bringing her with him. It's probably cold now; he grabs the blanket off the back of the couch and wraps her in it, drawing her onto his lap. "Maybe, but I still like it."

She laughs. She puts her hand on his chest, and then rests her head. "Is this okay?"

He tightens his arms around her. "Do you need to go?"

"I should. I just... want a minute."

He can't help himself kissing her head and doesn't. He wants more than a minute, but he'll take what she gives.

She snuggles close to him. Her arms around him, draped over him, like she wants to keep him as warm as the blanket he pulled over her. She puts her face against his neck and strokes his arm and sighs, soft and wet, against his skin.

And then she starts kissing him.

Gentle, sweet little kisses up his neck, along his jaw, until he turns his face and he kisses her. Then his fingers are in her hair, and her fingers are in his, and he can't get enough of this, doesn't want to get enough of it.

When she pulls back it's like feeling the knife slide out of his gut. She comes back in for a kiss and pulls away again. Looks at him.

"Steve, can I... Can we do this again?"

His heart soars and his dick jumps. "Yeah, honey. We can do this again."


End file.
